The Howling
by an alcoholic
Summary: Fem!werewolf!Harry, BWL!Neville.
1. PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

Petunia Dursley was washing the dinner dishes when Harry came through front door, closing it with a thunderous slam. After fixing the deadbolt shut, she braced against it, one teary eye closed, as she panted like a dehydrated dog. Her jumper was soiled, shredded at odd places. Sweat streamed through the dirt on her, and there was a series of dark-plum bruises along her limbs. Finally, and most alarmingly, was the gaping, bloody crescent just below her knee, that dripped red on the new area rug.

Petunia's first – and rather cruel – instinct was to scold her for soiling the rug. Instead, she hissed out "What in God's name happened to you, girl. . ."

She steered Harry to the kitchen's linoleum, where she inspected the wound.

"What happened?" she asked again, a little softer this time.

"A dog," Harry bit out, her hand clenching in the soddy yellow material of her jumper, "he bit me."

"It wasn't the neighbor's. . . ?"

"No. . . it was huge. It smelled... awful. Just awful." Fat tear drops slid down Harry's dirty face, and Petunia tried to ignore the swell of sympathy in her breast. Vernon permitted only one doctor's visit a year, for the sole purpose of not being reported to Children's Services. (A bizarre ideology Vernon had.)

"What kind of mongrels have gotten about these parts?" she wondered aloud. Harry rubbed a fist in her teary eyes, and braced against the kitchen table.

Petunia snatched up Harry's wrist and sniffed daintily. She peered into the den, where Dudley and Vernon were enjoying their banana splits and roaring with laughter at the tube. Not wanting to make a scene, she strode determinedly across the threshold, pushing Harry before her. The flashing lights from the tube highlighted Harry's leg.

"What's she done this time?" Vernon asked distractedly.

"Playing with stray dogs," Petunia said hastily, "she'll never learn."

"Idiot girl," Vernon grunted in agreement.

"What an idiot!" Dudley sneered at Harry, chocolate smeared his mouth and a drop of melted ice cream trailing down his chins. He squinted. "Wait, Mummy, is that blood on Harry's – "

"Just a scratch, Duddums," Petunia assured him with a rather unconvincing smile. "Just a scratch."

She closed the door, and grimaced as Harry began stripping and removed her glasses.

"We'll have to see it doesn't get infected," Petunia said.

She cleaned it, and didn't miss Harry's winces as the sting of antiseptic mixed with the soreness of the wound. At least it was clean now. She regarded Harry for a moment. "You clean up. Wash your hair... I'll be back with your bedclothes."

Harry did as instructed, and while the water felt nice and it was good to be free of grit and blood, she wondered what Vernon would say if she used one of the family towels to dry off – Petunia wasn't likely to bring one of her own, worn-through ones down. She opted to watch the rivulets of water run off her, to the drain... and the blood along with it, rust-colored and slowing down immensely. She wondered many things until Petunia re-appeared, with a large ratty T-shirt and a scowl on her face.

"Now," she said lowly, "I want you tell me every detail of what happened... but only after Vernon and Dudley have gone to bed."

Harry looked uncertainly between Petunia and the towels.

"Just use one already," she sighed, and sat on the toilet, her chin in her palm and her legs crossed.

After Harry slid the T-shirt over her head, Petunia was ready with the antiseptic again and a sports bandage. She set to cleaning it again, noting how ghastly large the bite marks were, as if not by a dog but something larger. Perhaps a wolf. No matter, she'd gather the details later.

She ushered Harry back to the kitchen hurriedly, and slapped together an anchovy-on-pumpernickel sandwich for Harry. Despite liking neither pumpernickel nor anchovies, Harry bit into it hastily (and she would only admit to herself, hungrily) as to not offend Petunia. But Petunia could hardly be bothered to pay Harry any mind as she collected Dudley and Vernon's ice cream dishes and answered her husband's questions vaguely.

It was only when the phone rang – Vernon muttered, "What fool calls at this time of night?" – that Petunia stilled for a moment.

"Hello?" Petunia said flatly. Harry slowed down her chewing enough to hear a male voice on the other end of the line. Petunia paled and slammed the phone back on the hook.

"Who was it, dear?" Vernon grunted from the living room.

She was wringing her hands anxiously, staring at the table absently. "Just that bloody obscene caller again." Her voice was weak. Her eyes drifted toward the phone like it was spot of mildew in her shower.

Vernon's fat purple face appeared in the door-frame. "Next time, Petunia, gimme the telephone and I'll tell that wanker where to go. We'll call the telephone company and report him to the police."

"It was an unknown number, dear. It's probably a creep calling from a payphone."

Vernon passed a disgruntled glance over at Harry, who was finishing up her sandwich and glass of milk. "Should've sent her to bed with no supper. Stupid chit." He directed his gaze back to Petunia. "In any case, we'll have to have someone investigate... Can't have idiots calling at all times of the night for an inappropriate joke, on honest folks like us..."

"Yes, dear."

"Goodnight," he called as he lumbered up the stairs. Dudley followed closely behind. "Daddy, what's an 'obscene caller' mean?"

Vernon grumbled something indecipherable.

Once the two were out of sight, Petunia – much to Harry's astonishment – went to the freezer and pulled out a bucket of ice cream. "Do you want chocolate or strawberry syrup?" she asked tersely, and Harry nearly choked on the last sip of milk.

"Well, speak up! There's a lot I need to know before tomorrow," she said, her skinny shoulders heaving with a sigh.

"Strawberry, if you wouldn't mind... " Harry said and watched in amazement as Petunia scooped two bowls full of ice cream.

For the first time in all of Harry's ten years, someone listened to her. Even if it was Aunt Petunia, who had a scowl on her face and asked odd details. Despite the ache on her leg and the fear that still tingled inside her body, Harry felt all right, against the backdrop sounds of the rug in the washer and her aunt scratching things on a notepad.


	2. ONE

ONE

Harry woke up positively _starving_.

This in itself was not abnormal, to go to bed a bit hungry – at least within the walls of the house on Privet Drive and in Harry's limited universe – but it was usually just a little grumble in her stomach. Something that could be ignored until morning. This was _not_. It was painful, and her stomach clenched as if she hadn't eaten for days. That wasn't true. Since the incident a few days ago, Aunt Petunia had been oddly accommodating – when Vernon and Dudley weren't looking, of course. Before bed she had Petunia's huge, half-eaten veal and pepper sandwich and a pot of leftover rice from their takeout the night before. Whether it was guilt or genuine concern fueling Aunt Petunia's behavior, Harry did not know, but was immensely grateful.

The only disparaging thing was Harry wasn't allowed out after nightfall anymore – not that she wasn't still scared of running into that large dog again. She remembered the thick strings of drool hanging from its huge sharp teeth in frightening detail. And its bizarre, blue-ish eyes. There hadn't been a collar, or even a broken chain trailing behind it. She just remembered swinging in Little Whinging's park, thinking idly of the long, miserable summer ahead of her – then, out of the blue, a low growl and a black figure emerging. She lunged from the swing to the gap in the fence behind the park, where the creature had snagged her sock and sank its teeth into her flesh. She remembered very little else, just her heart thundering in her ears as her sneakers beat against the asphalt until she got home.

So under Aunt Petunia's direction, she de-weeded the garden and took out the garbage. Together they washed Vernon's car with fat, yellow sponges and maybe once or twice Petunia had smiled. Uneasily, of course. It was nice, she decided, and didn't think too much in to it. Her wound was scabbed over, and she kept it bandaged and clean as she could. Perhaps the summer wouldn't be so terrible, after all.

But Harry couldn't help the unfamiliar sensation growing in her stomach. It felt like a stomach-ache, almost, but not quite. Groaning softly, she slid from the bed and slipped downstairs with minimal creaking. The refrigerator beckoned her, and her eyes grew wide with alien hunger as she scoured through the contents of all the shelves and drawers. Nothing in the vegetable crisper was appealing, and the dairy drawer had only string cheese and a tub of butter. Eggs took too long to make. There was nothing that sounded good. Except for the strange flare of interest – almost as if a dormant part of her mind woke up and decided to take power – when she skimmed through the drawer of cold cuts, which also contained three thick, well-marbled steaks easily bigger than her head. It was Vernon's Friday treat, as he liked to call it, to throw three steaks on the grill for him, his wife and son while Harry sat in the house and had a stale bread sandwich. Guided by unseen forces – the ones she suspected that also told you to punch people and burn down houses – Harry set the three steaks on the table and peeled off the cellophane. She bit into the raw steak and her stomach did flips in relief. The formerly vile taste of fresh meat was suddenly irresistible. Between each cut, she licked her fingers like mad, in the back of her mind disgusted, but her body on autopilot. She was absolutely ravenous. Not a drop of blood or scrap of meat went un-devoured.

Her breathing heavy, Harry began to clean up the mess. Halfway, washing her stick face and fingers, the kitchen light flicked on. Frozen, she turned her head slowly to see the purpled, bloated image of Vernon Dursley about to erupt violently like a volcano.

The particulars of the ensuing conversation between Vernon and Harry are unremarkable, although it will be noted that Harry's summer took a turn for the worse. That, and she was evicted from Dudley's old bedroom, to the cupboard under the stairs that very night.

-x-

Petunia Dursley was at a loss.

She lay awake beside Vernon in their bed, her eyes on her housekeeping magazine but her mind far, far away.

At the beginning of spring, she'd made a proposal to Vernon, a risky one. There was a girl's school several hours away, near the coast that was cheap and had boarding. She drew up plans of where and when to dump Harry, how much it would cost, and how she would fund it. Vernon would not have to spend a coin of his own money. She had a small, heretofore untapped inheritance from her parents, and the small amount of money they received from the government for Harry. It would be enough to cover the tuition – and her further plan was to scope the small town or even the campus where Harry could work for the rest. It wasn't the _best _plan, granted, but it was better than Vernon's suggestion of public school and his increasing cruelty to the girl. She wasn't blind. Vernon's nastiness grew daily. He seemed to be convinced that her _heritage_ would manifest soon enough. Any unexplainable coincidence was immediately pinned on Harry, and some form of punishment followed. She, too, was not fond of the thought that her niece would follow in the path of her sister. _My sister_, she thought sourly, who did silly magic and married a moron who thought he could pull a rabbit out of a hat for a living.

At least if Harry was away for the bulk of the year, she'd be spared from Vernon's wrath. There was so little Petunia could do in the face of her husband's anger, besides make arrangements on the side. She very well wasn't about to divorce him. This way Harry could perhaps grow not so crooked – and Petunia wasn't about to let Harry go to that abomination of a school her sister had went. There was no way she could possibly afford it.

But then the girl had gone and done _that_.

Petunia – especially since the dog's bite – had been taking special care to make Harry feel, well, not so quite distant. She was quietly grooming her for Vernon's approval, so he would allow her to go to the girl's school. That was the intention, for the next few weeks, anyway, until she could be safely enrolled.

One would think Vernon would want to be rid of Harry at any opportunity. But Petunia knew her husband wasn't like that. He liked to keep his enemies in plain sight. _If your enemy is to be a ten-year-old girl_, she thought acidly. Vernon took his competitors and in-company rivals out to luncheons and traveled with them to conventions and tool shows. He was deceptively friendly – chummy and intimate. But when he got home, he said nasty things about them and called them names. He tore up their Christmas cards and tossed them in the rubbish bin. He, even being the corpulent pig he was, dumped their wives' amiable gifts of sweets and pies in the garbage. Once his old business had given him a goose for Christmas dinner, and had let one of Marge's bulldogs chew on its thawed body when they visited for the holiday. That was how Vernon Dursley operated. Petunia knew.

But nothing explained Harry's bizarre behavior. Just up and eating their steaks like that. Unbelievable. Vernon had dragged Harry from the kitchen by her hair and shoved her in the cupboard under the stairs, all the while bellowing and screaming. Dudley had scrambled down the stairs and laughed at pointed at Harry struggling to open the cupboard door and explain herself.

Vernon dug through some drawers until he found a lock. He fitted it on the cupboard door and gave it a good, hard kick. Harry's sobs could be heard on the other side of the door, her fists knocking against it. Petunia herded Dudley back to bed and pretended to already be asleep when Vernon's weight sagged the bed down, and the mattress springs groaned in their nightly protest. His breathing was shallow and it was a while until the expletives stopped streaming from his mouth.

In the morning, after Vernon had gone to work and Dudley was settled in the den with his cereal and cartoons, Petunia sneaked to the cupboard with a sleeve of saltines, two bottles of water, and a flashlight. When she unlocked it, she found Harry planted face-first into the floor, snoring and drooling. She shook her awake.

"Wake up, girl," she hissed. Harry rolled over almost instantaneously and pulled on her glasses. She looked awful, with dark shadows under her eyes. She was even paler than usual, if that was possible, her skin appearing translucent.

"Let me have a look at your leg, make sure it's not infected," she said quietly. Harry acquiesced, unrolling the bandage and letting Petunia near enough. The edges were clear, but raw-looking. While she set to applying ointment, she talked to Harry in a low voice.

"I don't know why you did that last night. You know those are Vernon's steaks. I've been feeding you well enough, haven't I?"

Harry's features pinched. In anger or something else she wasn't sure. It took a moment for a response. "I tried to explain to him. I didn't feel _right_. I _still _don't feel right."

Petunia sighed and looked heavenward. "When I can get the car, I'll take you to the doctor. But Vernon mustn't know. It might have something to do with an infection, your odd behavior. I've never known one to eat _raw meat_," she said pointedly, "but... you aren't like that."

Harry's face brightened a fraction.

"But heavens! Don't repeat that ever again!" she said as she closed the cupboard door. Harry followed her to the kitchen, where Dudley was pouring himself another bowl of cereal.

He gave Harry a reproachful once-over. "I thought she was supposed to be locked in the cupboard, Mummy!"

"Well, your father's given her plenty of chores to do, Duddlykins, don't you worry about her! Go watch your cartoons. I'll see to it that Harry is punished properly."

Dudley, seemingly satisfied with his mother's response, lifted the bowl to his fat face and slurped it all the way to the living room and laughed loudly at the coconuts falling on the protagonist's head.

Petunia tossed a rag and a wedge of shoe polish to Harry, and gestured toward the large pile of black leather clogs, sandals, and dress shoes that Vernon tended to favor. Harry swallowed.

"Get to work," Petunia had said, and vanished.

When Vernon returned home from work, he was pleased to see Harry mopping the kitchen. He tracked his dirty shoes through purposely as he grabbed a glass of water. "I trust your punishment is enough to keep you from repeating your mistakes," Vernon said mildly as he heated three crepes in the microwave.

"Yes, sir."

Vernon seemed pleased enough the rest of the evening, and here they were now in bed. Petunia shifted uncomfortably close to Vernon – angling herself perhaps for a kiss – and flinched slightly when his brow creased. "What is it, dear?" Vernon was never comfortable with physical affection, and it had taken plenty of time and patience to even conceive Dudley. It was no surprise he was uninterested in kisses and the like.

"Vernon, about Harry," she began softly, uncertainly, "you won't dismiss my idea –"

The phone rang. Vernon lunged for it before Petunia even had the chance to blink. He answered it, his face already colored royally.

"We'll get your number, you bloody wanker," he started it on the caller. However, he slowed down when a man's calm, even voice cut through his vitriol.

"Please, is there a Mrs Petunia Dursley present? May I speak with her?"

"You'll do no such thing! My wife has already heard enough of your obscenities. We shall find you, we shall hunt you down and we shall see that you are locked up for good! Honestly, playing jokes on poor, innocent housewives, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, really."

"That isn't – "

Vernon slammed the phone on the hook, looking immensely pleased with himself. "That should do 'er. Bastard won't be calling again anytime soon. Even if we can't get his number, we can scare 'im. People are stupid like that. Expect no more calls from that piece of shit, no siree," he chuckled and settled back under the blanket.

"Now, what about the little chit?" he prompted.

Petunia sighed, shutting off her reading lamp. "It's nothing, dear. Don't mention it."

-x-

Vernon had scarcely slept the night before. He sipped his coffee and read his newspaper with red-rimmed eyes. Petunia set a plate of fried eggs, toast and bacon before him. She seemed troubled, too, and he ventured to ask why.

"Did you hear that last night? That racket?" he said quietly around his toast, should Dudley come down the stairs that very moment be alarmed at something be wouldn't be paying attention to in the first place.

Petunia's brow furrowed. "I don't believe I know what you're talking about."

"It was... it was like growling!" he gestured, with one hand. The crumbs in the bristles of his moustache settled on the front of his shirt. "I've never heard such a thing!"

His eyes widened in unspoken revelation and Petunia frowned out the window, where a group of children were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.

"The girl," he growled tersely, "she hasn't, by any chance, been playing with strays again has she?"

"Couldn't have," Petunia said lightly, raising her brows and not meeting her husband's eyes. "She's been scrubbing the house top to bottom every day. My eyes are always on her."

"Well, it couldn't have been anything else. It was so loud... All night and into the morning. I'll call the animal control if I have to," he said warningly and Petunia nodded.

"Such measures might have to be – "

Vernon dropped his toast, and held up a hand to hush Petunia. His eyes roved left and right. Suddenly he stood, his stomach pushing the chair back and the chair's cushion dimpled and saggy from his ass's abuse. He strode toward the front door – that's when Petunia heard it, too. It was coming from under the cupboard. Like the sound of an angry dog. Vernon leaned and knocked a hammy fist against the door.

"Quit that racket at once! You ought not have smuggled a stray in there, you hear me? If that's what you've done, you won't see the light of day for months!"

Petunia winced, rushing to the foyer.

"Vernon, please, she hasn't done something so foolish, she hasn't had the time – "

The growling grew took on a volume that stirred even Dudley from sleep. He stomped down the stairs, rubbing his eyes with a fist to see his father hitting the cupboard door with a broom and bellowing obscenities. Eventually the growling dwindled and Vernon ripped off the lock, his face the color of a storm cloud. Dudley watched with sleepy glee as Harry was about to be lambasted by his father, yet again. It was a brilliant way to start the day.

Only that didn't happen.

Once the door was opened, it was slammed shut just as fast. Vernon pushed the stand and the coat-rack against it. He panted heavily and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "That isn't natural," he muttered. "Not at all."

He gave a pointed look to Petunia. "It's got to be something to do with _that_, doesn't it? It's about the age when... when they're called for... what is it... " He was completely lost.

"It doesn't reduce you to _that_," she said incredulously, "Lily was never like _that_."

"Like what, Mummy?" Dudley asked, pouting.

"But those glowing eyes, those teeth! I knew they were monstrous, but I had no idea..." Vernon said.

"Like what?" Dudley asked petulantly, tugging on his father's pant leg.

All of a sudden a sharp coil of growls sounded. Vernon smacked the door with the broom almost reflexively, and kicked it for good measure. Dudley crept from between his father's legs to the door, and behind the coat-rack. He wanted just a peek, to see what his parents were talking about. Neither of them were paying him any attention, with their seemingly endless arguing and he used that to his advantage. He pulled back the cupboard door slightly, gingerly. A pair of glowing green eyes floated in the darkness and a sound not unlike a motorcycle's engine hummed from the depths of the cupboard. Dudley promptly shrieked and slammed the cupboard door shut.

"Duddums, don't be messing around with that! It's dangerous!" Petunia cried, gathering the shaken boy in her arms. She stroked his mop of blond hair soothingly. He whimpered in return, mumbling incoherently.

"I cannot do this. I simply cannot do this," Vernon announced to them both, and returned to the kitchen.

Petunia cast a doubtful glance at the barricaded cupboard, and steered Dudley toward the kitchen. But – she thought – this series of events was undoubtedly making the idea of that girl's school more appealing to Vernon by the second.

-x-

Not long after Vernon had left for Grunnings, Petunia found herself on the phone with the mother of Piers Polkiss – Dudley's little friend who was also Smeltings-bound. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Petunia suggested perhaps little chaps could play at Piers's house. That Dudley had been going on and on about being bored (he had), and she felt relieved when Mrs Polkiss assented. It wasn't hard to make up an excuse that was both unimportant and concerning Harry. She had ten years of practice, after all.

Dudley packed a bag full of toys, lugging it behind him and he waddled out the door. Petunia kissed his cheek, much to his dismay, and expressed some doubt about leaving her at home along with Harry. Dismissing his concerns, she waved cheerfully as Mrs Polkiss's car backed out of 4 Privet Drive.

She wasted no time in removing the barricade. Dragging Harry – who had been twitching with what she hoped was sleep – out by the ankles, she felt her forehead, and inspected the inside of the cupboard. Harry's mouth was bloodied and one of her molars was chipped. There were splinters of wood between her teeth as well. When Harry's eyes flew open, Petunia shrinked back in fear – but blessedly, thankfully they were back to normal. She helped her up, and herded her to the bathroom to clean up, and then the kitchen where a bowl of lumpy oatmeal awaited Harry.

Petunia unfurled the paper. "Vernon's agreed to send you to a girl's school this coming year."

Harry looked at her, incredulous. "What?"

"We can't have you around anymore," she said simply. "You'll end up like your mother if we coddle you much longer."

Harry knew very little about her parents, but what she had heard was always negative. She liked to believe differently. But at the same time, there was nothing else to draw on. She didn't know or care, though, at the moment. She was incredibly tired. Weakly, she drained her glass of orange juice. "I feel awful."

"I know you do."

"Then will you take me to the doctor?"

"I don't have a car at the moment," Petunia snapped.

"Doesn't Mrs Figg have a car? Do you think she'd let you borrow it?" she croaked, holding her forehead in her palm. She removed her glasses and massaged her temples. She didn't remember a thing of last night. Only that Uncle Vernon had been bellowing something and whacking the cupboard with the broom for an inordinate amount of time this morning.

Petunia raised a brow. "She'll be suspicious."

"Wouldn't it be suspicious if I died?" said Harry, placing her head on the cool of the table, sighing.

"Don't say things like that," Petunia hissed.

Silence stretched between them as Petunia thought and thought. The problem was, there was nothing to think about. Harry obviously needed medical attention she couldn't provide. Blowing air through her fringe, Petunia glared at the ceilingand rose. She dragged Harry to the living room with a blanket and the remote to the sofa, and set to fixing up the cupboard proper with a cot and a pillow until she could think of a more enticing solution.


End file.
